Ouch. We've stumbled across a 1991 advert for Scottish lager, and London does not come out well. If you're brave(heart) enough to stomach it, let's begin...
It is 8.15am on the London Underground, and our smouldering Scottish hero is disgusted about something. Keep the heid, fella. What's bothering you?
These freaks. Londoners, to use the proper name. Look at these moribund losers — eyes and cheeks sagging around their faces like gone-off meat, the grey goo of despair oozing down their foreheads. To hammer the ambience home, they've paid Philip Larkin to stand in the left of the shot. Even though he's died six years previous.
Our lion-maned champ has only just alighted, but he's already firing off his next filthy look. What's up now? It's some idiot. Tourist no doubt. Helplessly lost (because the idiot hasn't got Citymapper. Or the internet. Or mobile phone. Because he hasn't bothered waiting for them to be invented. Idiot).
Our bonnie hero despairs at how cruel London is, and promptly walks on by. "It is too late for you now," says our Scot with his handsome Caledonian eyes, "you are London's now."
And Caledonia, as sung by Frankie Miller, plays on.
Our latter day William Wallace emerges blinking into the London smog ("Smog City Shock" coughs a newspaper billboard, if you're quick enough). In a heartbeat, there's another disgusted look. His (angus) beef this time? Bloody cyclists innit. And this one's crossed the line by taking fashion tips from Mr Motivator. "I hope you are run over dead," says our man with his smoking Gaelic eyes. We are reminded of Christian Bale in American Psycho. (What's in that briefcase of his anyway?)
And still London continues to be a massive twat. Across the street a lorry driver and cabbie are at one another's throats. "Just you wait for Uber to be invented..." spits the lorry driver, presumably. Having spaffed out all his dirty looks for the time being, our braw businessman carries on, unamused.
Fast forward a lift at Canary Wharf full of suits. This is the final straw. A lift? A hoachin' lift? You widnae get that in Scotland, pal.
And with that, our tartan tosser tosses his building pass at the receptionist, and his briefcase (seriously, what was in there?) into a skip — much to the chagrin of Trigger from Only Fools and Horses' evil twin.
Jump cut to the golden skies of Edinburgh, where our scunnered soul instantly snaps back to life. He is hame! (English trans. home). In Edinburgh, everyone smiles at you. In Edinburgh, your pals are always waiting down the boozer. In Edinburgh, the average beer costs under £6.50. It is this last fact that makes him smile for the first time since 1989.
That's not quite the end of the saga though. A freeze frame of our smirking hero appears in a newspaper. A femme fatale type scans said paper. Who is she? It can only be his wife. His London wife. As the tube door shuts, we know she is headed to King's Cross. From there, she will board the fast train to Edinburgh, and drag her husband kicking and screaming back to London. It is where he belongs now. This is not the first time she's had to do this. It will probably not be the last. He will have to make do with Stella.
Here is the glorious video in full. Why not crack open a can of premium golden lager and enjoy? If not, a Tennent's will do.
With thanks to this.